


there's space for you right here

by deadeels



Series: reynisfjara [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bearded Steve Rogers, Bottom Steve Rogers, Dogs, Geographical Isolation, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, for security purposes, sappy old man sex, steve rogers accepting love and care 2k19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 23:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15959996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadeels/pseuds/deadeels
Summary: "You're telling me the Winter Soldier, the world'sgreatestanddeadliestassassin, showed up at your remote cottage in Iceland for a booty call?"Steve grows a beard, gets fucked and is gifted a dog—not in that order.





	there's space for you right here

Project _Find Bucky_ is held up by the remaining vestiges of Hydra double agents crawling out of the woodwork for one last hurrah; though Steve is decidedly determined to start the search he realizes the danger once Fury lays it out for him, Sam and Natasha (not there by choice, and not because Fury didn’t trust her to take care of herself, it's just that dangerous.)

In lieu of setting up Steve with a safehouse located in the U.S. as he did with the others, Fury sends him to Vík í Mýrdal, Iceland, a remote fishing village with a population that barely breaks 300 and, conveniently, a SHIELD safehouse from the 70’s. Steve flies out on a Quinjet in the middle of November, armed only with a bag full of stealth gear, civvies and toiletries, his shield and a communicator, as well as some essential 'survival gear' Tony had given to him in a faux care package. Fury assures him the cottage is ‘fully furnished’, though his definition on what that means, exactly, is unclear.

The ‘jet drops him off on the beach, where black basalt stretches and stretches out to the ocean, which stretches even farther. There are crags of rock jutting out in the distance, and a huge cliff both spans and overlooks the entire village. The safehouse sits on the very edge of the town, just before the start of the beach. Even from here Steve can tell it’s small, but he’s more glad about that than he thought he’d be. Smaller space, less places to hide.

Steve trudges along the coast, backpack over one shoulder and shield in its case over the other. The air is so astoundingly different than that of New York and honestly, he can’t really say he misses that particular smell right now. He lets himself take deep breaths as he walks, tasting the salt on his tongue and letting the cool air sink down into his bones, refreshing him from the inside out. It’s incredibly early here, almost 0400, so he doesn’t encounter anyone on his trek towards the safehouse. Steve isn’t entirely sure what SHIELD’s relationship with the villagers is; he knows there must be one, in a town so small, but Fury assured he’d be more or less welcomed, or at the very least not treated with outward animosity or suspicion.

The cottage, once he reaches it, _is_ fully furnished, more or less. There’s a couch in the front room with a colorful blanket draped over it, a shag carpet on the wood floor, a rudimentary kitchenette with several necessary appliances. The bedroom has a queen-size mattress and a small space heater in the corner, as well as an overstuffed armchair and a dresser. It’s _cozy_ , very much so, and Steve.. wants Bucky to be here, more than anything, wants to know he’s safe—but he's okay, with this. For now.

-

On the first day he sleeps for about 8 hours before waking up absolutely _famished_ and realizing it’s probably imperative that he walk up to the small market he’d seen on his way to the safehouse. Steve dons his stealth pants (because they’re warmer) and a civvie overcoat before venturing outside. It’s chilly, but the noonday sun rests high in the sky, reflecting off the black basalt and warming up the beach.

Steve had decided that arming himself would surely bring no favor to him from the townspeople and is glad of it when an absolute _beast_ comes running at him from across the beach, followed by a matching human. His hair is a long, blonde mane of a thing, his body huge and bulking and looking like he could take Steve down in an instant. He reminds Steve of Thor, (which he supposes is a bit stereotypical but ah, well) and he gets an abrupt pang of longing to see him and tell him about this place.

The dog bounding towards him looks to be a mix between a labarador and one of those big fluffy monsters with ‘great’ in the name that Clint had showed Steve on his phone. He certainly looks _great_ , big paws nearly the size of the Tesseract, snout long and rounded and no doubt hiding lots of sharp teeth, though he doesn’t look inclined to use them. Rather, he skids to a halt in front of Steve and promptly flops over, showing his soft underbelly. Steve crouches beside him and scratches obligingly.

 _“Bangsi!”_ Steve hears the man call, but there’s laughter in his voice. He’s winded from the run down the coast and bends over with his hands on his knees once he finally reaches Steve and the dog. “Bangsi,” he pants out, “you stupid mutt!” He looks up at Steve apologetically, and—his eyes are _very_ blue, his lashes long and golden. Steve flushes.

“It’s alright,” he says, “I don’t mind. Who’s this?” The man laughs.

“He’s _Bangsi_ ,” he says, accent thick but not incomprehensible. “A big stuffed bear!” Silently, Steve agrees with this translation. “He lives here, too,” the man gestures up at the cottage. “When your friends have no one staying here, he lives with me. But as soon as you return, he knows to come back as well.”

He sits down beside them, falling heavily on his rump. He looks warm in a knit sweater and corduroy pants, and Steve is maybe a little bit jealous. “I’m Gunnar,” the man says, holding a big hand out for Steve to shake.

“Steve,” he replies, and abruptly wonders if he should’ve used a different name. Ah, well. Too late now. Fury’ll just have to deal, if there are issues.

Gunnar nods as if this explains everything. He looks as if he’s about to ask Steve something that he’ll probably have to lie about, opens his mouth, closes it again, before standing and holding a hand out for Steve to take.

“Are you hungry?” Gunnar asks instead. Bangsi jumps up with them, and Steve brushes the basalt off the back of his pants.

“Yeah, actually,” he says. “I really am.”

Gunnar smiles.

-

No one in Vík í Mýrdal raises cattle, Gunnar explains as he, Steve and Bangsi walk through the market, preferring to use the ocean’s fish for sustenance instead of sending out for other animals. It’s a small enough village that no one seems to have complaints, and Steve is glad he’s got the taste for seafood. Bucky never did, always used to gag dramatically at Steve on the days he knew there would be shipments of fish coming to the docks.

 _“I can’t do it, Stevie, the smell! It’ll put me in a goddamn early grave, I tell ya,”_ he’d whine and gripe, and Steve would pretend to fuss but wouldn’t be able to keep from laughing once Bucky pulled out the faux-gags.

“ _I_ _’m gonna be sick, just the thought of it, hhrrhugh!_ ” Steve would giggle despite himself and Bucky would always smile triumphantly before putting on three shirts to keep the smell from tainting his skin and leaving for work.

The smell of fish here is strong, sure, but pleasant when it’s cooked and doused in spices, dried and hanging from vendors’ overhangs. Gunnar buys one that he and Steve tear strips off of to feed to Bangsi, who looks at them adoringly. “There are always people willing to feed you, here,” Gunnar says, “and there is a grocery that sells ingredients, prepared food and the like. But,” he says, a hint of pride working its way into his voice, “you must go fishing with me sometime. It’s beautiful, early in the morning when the salt is still cold. It’s imperative now, too, that the ocean is not yet too cold for the fish.” Steve nods emphatically. There isn’t much else for him to do here, other than await Fury’s order and ‘lay low’, and it does sound beautiful. Peaceful, even; peacefulness these days something he’s lacking.

Steve returns home an hour later with a canvas bag laden down with food: fresh fish, the dried fish that he and Bangsi can share, spices from the grocery that he can cook it in, as well as bread, pasta and some vegetables. There’s already a container of gas at the cottage for the stove, and a small refrigerator as well as a toilet. There isn’t much else besides food he needs at this point, except for maybe a decent book.

Gunnar helps him put everything away, Bangsi stretched out on the kitchen floor beneath them and dozing with his tongue out.

“I hope I have been a help, Steve,” Gunnar smiles warmly at him. Steve’s heart clenches gratefully in his chest.

“You have, I assure you,” he says, hoping to convey is gratitude through the sheer force by which he says his words. “I would’ve been absolutely lost without you two,” Steve smiles at Gunnar, then down at Bangsi at their feet.

When Gunnar goes to leave, he tells Steve instructions for Bangsi, much to Steve’s surprise. “You’re really.. leaving him here with me?” He glances down at the beast, snoring softly. “I mean, not that he isn’t great, but I thought he was yours.” Gunnar simply laughs.

“It is as I said, Steve. He is mine, until you return. Then he is yours.” Gunnar leans in close as if telling a secret. “ _Bangsi_ is special. Time does not touch him; he’s just the same as he was when I was a boy, and will remain so until I am old.” He looks at Steve for a few more moments before leaning back again. “Now, Bangsi does not eat like other dogs. He prefers  _hardfiskur_ , the fish we gave him earlier, and he drinks from the ocean. You need only to let him outside whenever he tells you—and he will,” Gunnar says with a wink. Steve nods dumbly.

A magical dog. He’s moved to a remote village in Iceland and has been given an ageless dog that only eats dried fish.

 _If only Bucky could see me now,_ he thinks, but it isn’t tinged with the usual regret and despair that accompanies Bucky’s name in his thoughts.

Instead, it’s hopeful.

-

Steve falls into a comfortable routine at the safehouse over the next week. He wakes up around 0600, lets Bangsi outside and then goes -back to sleep for another two hours. The next time he wakes they go on a run down the beach and back up again, Steve bundled up in civvies _and_ stealth gear, as well as an enormous knit sweater that Gunnar gifts to him when he sees Steve shivering in the grocery on the 5th day.

 “My mother knit this for me years ago,” he says, a fond smile on his face, running his fingers over the worn fabric. “I quite like it, but I believe that things such as this are meant to be passed on to people who need them more.” Gunnar looks Steve’s shivering form up and down. “And you, my friend, definitely need a good layer.” Steve can’t even find the words to object to the gift, simply takes it with a small _thank you_ and the warmest smile he can muster.

 _Enhanced internal body temperature my_ ass _, Howard,_ he thinks.

In the afternoon he’ll make food for him and Bangsi, who will, he discovers, eat cooked fish just as well as dried fish, only with moderately less gusto. Steve was never much of a cook, before the war there wasn’t much _to_ cook and afterwards he had fell deep into the pit of takeout along with the rest of the Avengers, but he enjoys experimenting with the fish. He likes the light dishes the best, fish served over a little bit of rice, seasoned with pepper and dried rosemary, and topped with lemon. Those the village _does_ have shipped out to them, as well as various other fruits when they’re in season (or so Gunnar tells him.)

By evening it’s too cold to do much else than curl up with Bangsi in the front room and read books. Steve had rummaged through the only closet in the cottage and had managed to come up with a couple of pulp novels and a vegetarian cookbook, the latter of which didn’t help him much but was still interesting to flip through. The idea that some SHIELD agent had passed through here years ago, bringing the cookbook along only to find that there wasn’t much to eat besides fish and the things you ate _with_ fish, cracks Steve up. He can’t imagine willingly abstaining from certain foods, if only because his brain hadn’t quite gotten over the fact that it's much more bountiful now.

At night, the village lights up a bit and Steve can see it through the few windows in the cottage. On one side there’s the various houses and few storefronts, softly lit by lanterns and moonlight; on the other there’s the black beach, glistening under the same light, giving way to even blacker ocean. Steve, though most definitely not a fan of freezing water and willingly _putting_ himself there, occasionally wonders what it must be like in the summer here, when it’s warm enough to go swimming. Do the fish play and dance around people’s feet, or do they swim frantically away, knowing any one of them could potentially be the next meal?

Steve can’t really say.

-

There are two people on planet earth (supposedly) who know where Steve is currently located. One is Fury, by virtue of having put him there, and the other is Natasha, by virtue of being Natasha. By the end of the first month Steve has received three letters from her, all explaining the situation at hand and letting him know everyone is (more or less) alright. She writes about little things, too, like how she and Sam have adopted a cat even though Sam insists he’s more of a dog person. Steve can’t write her back and tell her about Bangsi simply because he has no idea how the letters get from Natasha to Gunnar’s hand when he delivers them to Steve, and is sort of afraid to ask. There is the communicator, but it has a tracking device on it that Fury said ‘ _should be only ever used for emergencies, Rogers._ Emergencies _, do you understand?’_

He’d be lying if he said it doesn’t get lonely here. Though he sees Gunnar nearly every day the man is an enigma, always citing some important task that needs doing before begging, apologetically, off. Bangsi, however, is with him always save for those early morning hours he does whatever he needs to, and Steve is immensely grateful.

By mid-December, the constant ache for Bucky, the need to ensure that he’s alive and safe, has dwindled down to a slow-burning flame in his chest. Steve allows himself to accept the peace he has and focus on that rather than the negatives, for now.

Mid-December is also when another letter from Natasha arrives. Steve sees Gunnar trekking down the beach to his cottage, and immediately feels guilty for not running out to meet him. It’s nearly 2200 and definitely in the negatives out there, what with the near-constant rain they’ve been having. Gunnar looks undisturbed, if a bit red in the cheeks, when Steve opens the door.

“Steve!” He says, as if they hadn’t seen each other less than a day ago. “I have another letter from your friend. This one came right as I was about to leave, so I thought ‘I might as well deliver it to him and Bangsi tonight.'”

“Thank you, Gunnar, but _please_ promise me you won’t risk hypothermia again just to get a letter to me,” Steve says. Gunnar laughs heartily.

“Me, bested by hypothermia? Don’t be silly! I am a Nord, Steve; the cold is in our blood!” He reaches down to pat Bangsi on the head before departing back into the night.

Steve shakes his head and takes the letter to the bed to read. He’d been about to go to sleep when Gunnar had arrived and is no less tired now, even though there’s the customary excitement of a new correspondence from Natasha. He flops on top of the covers on his belly, skims the page, and promptly falls asleep.

Steve jerks back into consciousness a few hours later to the sound of knocking. He’s laying in bed with Natasha’s letter stuck to his cheek and a bad taste in his mouth, Bangsi sprawled out across his feet. The beast, snoring with his big nose tucked into the blanket, resists Steve’s efforts to move him and instead buries deeper into the comforter he’s got trapped beneath him. The room is absolutely _freezing_ despite the space heater, and Steve can hear the rain outside pelting the roof. The analog clock on his nightstand tells him it’s just past four in the morning, and he hopes desperately it’s not Gunnar troubling himself with another one of what should be Steve’s errands. He manages to slide out from under Bangsi and drag himself out of bed, grabbing the sweater on his way into the front room, and wrestling it on.

He pads into the front room on bare feet—a mistake, the wood is as cold as the rest of the house—and unlatches the heavy lock he’d installed the first day. He can only see by the moonlight reflecting off the sand, so the figure that it opens to reveal isn’t _clear,_ exactly, but he’d know that snarled hair and those hunched sniper’s shoulders anywhere.

Bucky steps inside without a word, dripping water on the floor at their feet. He looks soaked to the bone, and his shoulders shake slightly from the chill. Steve is surprised, (and maybe a little dismayed) to find that he’s back in his tactical gear; the vest that frees the arm and protects the chest, the pants with endless compartments for knives and the reinforced HYDRA combat boots. He’s not wearing an overcoat, which can be deadly up here, and Steve itches to pull him inside and wrap Bucky up in the warmest blanket he has.

“Steve.” He startles, realizes he’s just been staring at Bucky where he stands in front of the door.

“Sorry, Buck, it’s just,” His sleep-brain hasn’t caught up to the events currently taking place, yet, and part of him is convinced he’s still dreaming. “How did you know I was here?”

There's a pause.

“You got any water?” Bucky asks in lieu of an answer.

“Uh.” Steve stares. Figures he might as well roll with it. “Yeah, Buck, of course.” Steve leads him over to the little kitchenette that adjoins to the front room. It’s not necessarily modern—there’s a sink that’s attached by way of some complicated plumbing to the village’s well, the refrigerator plugged into one of three outlets that exist in the house and a miniature gas stove. It’s a refreshing break from the overwhelming appliances that live in the Avengers tower, though he does miss toast taking only one minute instead of ten.

He fills a glass and hands it over. Bucky takes it in his flesh hand, drinks it much too fast, leans across Steve to refill the glass. Like this, Steve can feel the warmth of Bucky’s body heat—overwarm, like his—despite the chill outside. He drains that glass, too, and Steve cringes. “Careful,” he says, and Bucky stops his hand where it hovers over the faucet again to look at him. “I just don’t want you to get stomach cramps, is all,” Steve explains. Bucky puts the glass down, all his focus on Steve now, and he can feel the beginnings of a flush working its way up the back of his neck. “Buck,” Steve says, almost imploringly, though what exactly he’s asking for, he’s not sure. Part of him is anxious about the fact that Bucky found him, somehow, that he wasn’t being careful enough. A bigger part of him wants to help, more than anything, wants to make sure _Bucky’s_ feeling safe.

Bucky takes a step forward and looks like he may even be about to speak, but is interrupted by a loud _boof._  

Bangsi comes bounding into the front room, paw thumps accompanied by the _clack_ of his claws on the wood. Bucky turns, stance defensive, before realizing that Bangsi isn’t attacking. Rather, he’s bumping his massive head against Bucky’s shins like a cat, asking to be pet. Bucky raises his brows.

“That’s Bangsi,” Steve says, unable to keep the affection out of his voice. “He lives here, apparently.” Bucky doesn’t respond, instead reaching his flesh hand down for Bangsi to smell. He does so exuberantly, crowding even more into Bucky’s space now that the potential for affection has been given.

Bucky scratches behind his big ears, runs his metal hand along Bangsi’s back, even crouches down to get at his belly. Bangsi pants his disgusting fish breath right in Bucky’s face, but he doesn’t seem to mind; he just keeps scritching, ‘til Bangsi flops down right there and rolls over to show his belly to get the full treatment.

Steve folds himself down on his knees next to them and rolls up the overlarge sleeves of his sweater so he can pet Bangsi, too. They sit there for what seems like hours, scratching Bangsi’s soft underbelly and petting under his chin, pretending they aren’t casting glances at each other. Every once in awhile Bucky makes to stand, and Steve is reminded that he’s probably exhausted and starving—but Bangsi won’t have it, whining up a storm until Bucky dutifully places his hands back on his belly.

Eventually Steve’s eyes start to droop, soothed by Bangsi’s warmth and knowing Bucky is safe and close by. He allows them to close for just a moment—but then Bucky is scooping him up, ignoring Bangsi’s pitiful whines and holding Steve to his chest as he carries him through the short hall.

“‘M not small anymore, Buck, you can’t just carry me around,” Steve protests feebly, feeling guilty for taxing Bucky’s strength but not guilty enough to try and break free of his hold. Bucky shushes him.

“In here?” He asks when they reach the bedroom, and his voice is rough enough to send shivers down Steve’s spine. He nods.

Bucky sets him down on his feet once they cross the threshold; Steve sheds the sweater, a bit warmer now that he’s in the room with the space heater. Bucky starts to remove his tac gear as well, not looking at Steve, sheds his boots and guns and bulletproof vest and lays them neatly on the chair overlooking the bed. Steve picks up Natasha’s letter where it’s sitting on top of the covers and carefully folds it up to place in the nightstand. Half of the details have been lost in a sleep-haze, but he can't bring himself to tear his attention away from Bucky and resolves to re-read the rest of it tomorrow.

Steve climbs into the covers and tries to pretend his entire body isn’t aching for Bucky to touch him again. His hands tremble with the force of not reaching out to him where he stands over the bed, clad only in his boxers and undershirt, hair hanging dark over his face where he looks at Steve like he’s waiting for an invitation.

Steve gives him one. All it takes is a ‘come on, Buck, you look exhausted,’ and Bucky is sliding into bed right next to him, gathering him up close and fitting himself to Steve’s back. It’s almost unbearably hot under the covers with their combined body heat and the space heater working in the corner, but the President himself couldn’t tear Steve away from his bed right now.

He drifts off into sleep warm, comfortable, feeling like it’s winter of 1938 with Bucky tucked all up against him like this. It’s the first time he’s felt _content_ since waking up out of the ice.

-

Steve floats back into consciousness an indeterminate amount of time later to a pleasant pressure in his gut. He’s hard, feels himself laying thick against his own hip, feels Bucky rutting into him from behind and sleepily rubbing his bed-warmed metal hand across Steve’s lower belly just how he always liked. Steve’s convinced there’s some biological imperative that ties the two of them together, a slow burn of arousal that’s constantly simmering under the surface whenever Steve’s in his presence and a need to get Bucky's dick inside of him ASAP as possible.

As it stands, Steve pushes back into the warmth behind him and covers Bucky’s hand with his own. His flesh hand comes up to rest lightly over Steve’s throat, holding, tearing a rumbly groan from Steve’s chest 

“Yeah?” Bucky says.

“Yeah, Buck. I really gotta-” Bucky cuts him off, kissing him deep and running his metal hand down to the waistband of his boxers. “I really gotta get you in me, Bucky,” Steve finishes when Bucky lets him come up for air.

Steve rolls onto his front and rummages in the nightstand for the lone bottle of lube Tony had included in his ridiculous care package, still 3/4ths of the way full. He passes it back to Bucky, who’s found his home on the backs of Steve’s thighs, and shivers when he hears the cap clicking open.

Bucky hastily shoves his boxers down, slicks two fingers up on his flesh hand and shoves them into Steve without much ceremony. Steve moans, loud and full-throated, for once truly grateful of the isolation the safehouse provides.

He stretches Steve out carefully but wasting no time, working up to three and then—and then _four_ fucking fingers, scissoring him, he can feel the slick dripping down to his balls and it makes Steve’s breath catch and _then_ , finally, the blunt head of Bucky’s cock is pushing against his hole and he can breathe again.

Bucky fucks Steve like how he used to, but with an air of desperation that they’d only ever had before he’d shipped out for the first time. He clings to Steve’s hips with both hands as if he’s liable to disappear if he loosens his grip for even a moment. It’s how Bucky held onto him after Zola’s lab, before he was sure that Steve was real and not just another hallucination.

Steve pushes back into him, wants to turn around in his arms and tell him he _gets it_. His presence in this bubble of isolation Steve has worked so hard to carve out for himself feels like a dream, one that ends with Steve waking up rutting against his sheets and the frigid air hitting his back where he’s thrown the blankets off. He’s gripping Steve hard enough to make moving an impossibility, though, and the angle is too good and he’s much too close to consider stopping. Instead, Steve clenches hard around him and reaches back to grasp at his living hand, squeezes hard and hopes he gets the message.  

The slick sounds of Bucky’s cock sliding in and out of him make Steve blush furiously, make him moan like a girl and fist his hands in the sheets. It’s _good_ , after seventy years of nothing but his own fist and faded pictures of his Bucky, and this one draws sounds out of him even that one couldn’t.

The desperation slowly ekes out of Bucky’s movements and suddenly he can feel how  _warm_ everything is, heating Steve up, making him sleepy and sated and loving. His thrusts go from urgent to slow in the space of a breath, control leaking back into the slow roll of his hips. Steve can feel his long hair brush against his shoulder blades when Bucky leans down to press kisses against the flush at the back of Steve’s neck.

Steve _loves_ him, indescribably, immensely, and his lungs start to hurt with the force of keeping it inside. He wants to say it, wants to breathe it into Bucky’s mouth like he used to when they got like this; only, there’s no way to ensure what Bucky’s reaction will be, and Steve desperately doesn’t want to scare him away. He cranes his head back for a kiss instead to keep himself quiet. Bucky meets Steve’s eyes and thrusts, punching a whimper out of him, before granting him what he’s asking for and sealing his lips over Steve’s. 

“Buck, I, uh, _fuck_ ,” Steve curses, can’t even form a goddamn coherent thought with the way Bucky’s moving in him. Bucky picks up on this and Steve feels him smile, just a little, into the back of his neck.

“Yeah, baby? You need somethin’ from me?” Bucky near growls in Steve’s ear, the asshole, slowing down the movement of his hips to a snail’s pace now. “D’you need to come, Stevie? Huh?”

“Yes, Jesus christ, Bucky, _yes_ , goddamn-” Steve manages to pant out, before Bucky pulls all the way out and rolls onto his back. Steve looks at him in bewilderment for a moment, until Bucky _smiles_ , and says,

“Then you’d better work for it.”

Steve climbs on top of him and reseats himself so quickly he thinks he might’ve pulled something. He’s close, _really_ close, back to where he was before, and all it takes is a bruising grip on his hips and a low ‘ _come for me, Stevie,’_ before he’s falling over the precipice and down into Bucky’s arms.

Bucky continues fucking up into him, though his movements are less rough so as not to over-sensitize, until he comes with a strangled grunt. He leaves bruises on Steve’s hips and wets up his insides and Steve feels his eyes burn with it all.

He knows if Bucky sees him cry it’ll be all over so he turns his face away, clenches around Bucky’s dick before it can slide out of him and tries to get a grip. It only takes a few moments of deep breathing—by then Bucky’s softened up and Steve can feel his come leaking out after he pulls away and rolls Steve onto his side again.

Bucky presses two—metal, this time—fingers up to Steve’s hole and gently presses in ‘til he’s writhing with it, then withdraws them, wipes them on the sheet and returns his hand to its rightful place on Steve’s lower belly.

“Yeah?” He whispers in Steve’s ear. Steve sighs.

“Yeah, Buck.”

-

Steve wakes up warm. There’s a weight pressed into his side, one he pushes back into. He rolls over, expects to be met with sleepy blue eyes and soft hair—instead, there’s fur and fish breath.

“Eugh,” Steve groans. “Bangsi, _christ._ ”

Bangsi responds with a sharp bark and the thump of his tail on the blanket

Steve hauls himself up to a sitting position, checking the clock. It’s just past 0900, much later than he usually wakes up to let Bangsi out. He doesn’t seem particularly distressed by the disruption in routine, if a bit antsy, but Steve forces himself out of bed anyway to let him out.

Steve wants to think that Bucky’s reappearance had been some dream, some sleep-induced hallucination—but his ass aches pleasantly and there’s a glass sitting on the counter in the kitchenette.

The question of _why_ Bucky came to him still remains, however. Surely it wasn’t just to fuck Steve’s brains out and then leave; there had to be something he needed, some logical reason why he’d taken the time to track Steve down and then travel to him. Bucky hadn’t looked like the Winter Soldier, despite his gear, but he hadn’t looked fully _Bucky_ either. Perhaps he was caught in some middle space, a grey area where the two met and fought for dominance.

Steve wasn’t sure what it meant that Bucky’s instinct was to find _him_.

When Bangsi is down the beach Steve goes to the bedroom, bending down and fishing under the mattress for his communicator. He briefly entertains the thought that Bucky is still in town; it couldn’t have been easy to get here, and to show up briefly then leave again seemed like a hassle, but he dismisses it almost immediately. He would’ve come back by now, given Steve some answers, maybe.

Steve, despite the ass-reaming he’s positive he’ll get from Fury later, dials Sam’s number.

-

"You're telling me the Winter Soldier, the world's _greatest_ and _deadliest_ assassin, showed up at your remote cottage in Iceland for a booty call?"

Steve sighs. “It wasn’t a.. a _booty call_ , Sam, I don’t even know what that _is_ -”

“It’s when someone shows up at your house expecting sex with no prior communication,” Natasha butts in. Steve flushes, infinitely grateful it was an audio-only call. They’d gotten past the immediate alarm that came with a call from the For Emergencies Only communicator and were onto the relentless teasing, apparently.

“Look,” Steve says. “I don’t know how he found me, or why he was there in the first place, and I’m _positive_ it wasn’t just for sex, Sam.” Sam makes an unimpressed noise but allows him to continue. “If there’s something wrong, if Hydra’s after him, we need to take action.”

“You can’t do shit, Steve, not until we get everything cleaned up here.” Fury had allowed them to come out of their temporary hiding much sooner than Steve had expected, and were back to running reconnaissance on possible Hydra bases so they could flush all the last agents out. It wasn’t particularly difficult work, Steve gathered, just tedious and time consuming. He loved it here but couldn’t deny the bone-deep itch that said he needed to be with them, fighting, finding Bucky and helping rebuild SHIELD.  “You’re still too recognizable here, too easy of a target.” Sam isn’t wrong, necessarily, but it still smarts.

“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Natasha promises. “If he’s using a ‘jet—which he has to be, by the way, there’s no other way to get on that island unless you’re coming out on a boat and he’d freeze first—there’s a record of him somewhere, Winter Soldier or not. Iceland doesn’t fuck around with their airspace.” Steve supposes that’s the best they can do, for now, and lets them go with a promise that he’ll keep calling.

“Fury’ll just have to get over it,” Natasha says, as if it makes any sense whatsoever, but Steve didn’t realize how much he missed them until he heard their voices, so he’s inclined to agree.

-

Christmas passes without much fuss, and New Year’s after that. He’s had another couple of calls with Natasha and Sam in the meantime but they don’t yield much information on Bucky. The good news is that he’ll be able to return to New York soon, late February at the latest. The thought of leaving Bangsi and Gunnar and the black basalt of Vík í Mýrdal behind fills Steve with sadness, but there’s nothing for it. SHIELD is only just starting to get back on its feet with the help of the rest of the Avengers, and he feels like a bum out here on vacation while they put in all the work.

One early morning in the beginning of January, Steve letting Bangsi out and shivering at the cool air that rushes inside the cottage, he hears the engine of a Quinjet.

It’s not very loud, which means it’s probably much smaller than the standard ones SHIELD uses for missions, built instead to hold two or three people (or one supersoldier) rather than an entire Strike team.

Steve looks up, squinting against the sun, to find that there is indeed a ‘jet sitting to the right of his cottage, nestled against the cliff overlooking the village. Emerging from the cockpit is a figure dressed in black, metal arm glinting sunlight and hair spilling around his shoulders.

Bucky trudges through the snow and sand up to Steve, who watches him.

“Hey, Buck,” he says. “Welcome back.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr!](https://vrsnufffilm.tumblr.com/)


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